


Wretched Monsters

by Scarecrowqueen



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Dark Jack, M/M, Minor Violence, Oh Jack what have you done?, Possible Squick, Psychological Torture, Torture, Where does this stuff even come from...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarecrowqueen/pseuds/Scarecrowqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your memories, Pitch Black. I want them. The fact that you’re going to bleed for them just makes it sweeter.”</p><p>Or, the one where Jack probably crosses a line avenging the wrongdoings to his lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wretched Monsters

“The torment of love can transform people into wretched monsters”   
\- Mathias Malzieu, La mécanique du coeur

 

The heavy oak door slams with finality behind North as he retreats the room, leaving the sole remaining occupants alone. The basement storeroom currently serving as an impromptu jail cell has been emptied for the occasion. Its captive Pitch Black sits in the far corner on the chilly floor, one knee drawn up and the other crossed before him, manacled hands in lap. While the glowing cuffs may not have looked like much, they were more than successful in binding their prisoner’s power, leaving him barely on par with a mortal man his size. Which compared to the supernatural heavyweights presently in residence at Santoff Claussen, leaves him woefully incapable of any kind of escape. Unless of course, he’s suddenly developed the Groundhog’s ability to bore straight through any geological material, including the solid stone the room was built with. Pitch discreetly presses his back harder into the rough-hewn wall behind him and prays for a miracle, but the Gods who watch over creatures like him mustn’t be taking calls at the moment because he’s going absofuckinglutely nowhere in a hurry.

“Cuffs look kinda tight there; they aren’t chafing or anything, are they?” Pitch doesn’t deign to respond to his Jail keeper’s offhand commentary; instead he opts to level his most poisonous of glowers at the Frostchild. It’s a good glower, Pitch has been perfecting it on his enemies for millennia now, and he’s a little perturbed that Frost shrugs it off with a soft huff of laughter and a quirk-lipped smile. “Is that a no? That disappoints me, really. I could stand to see you in a bit more discomfort, really, would make my day.” Pitch snorts before he can help himself.

“So bloodthirsty, little Jack? What would your compatriots think?”

“My compatriots...” Jack circles a little closer to Pitch, flanking him from the right side, his staff slung casually over one should. “The other Guardians trust me. They trust that I have you well in hand, and under control.” Here, he paused, reaching out to lean his staff against the nearby wall before settling himself gracefully onto one knee before Pitch. “But they don’t know me like you do, do they? They don’t understand the darker side, all the little sharp edges that never wear smooth.” Jack cocks his head a little, like a particularly curious Beagle. “You do, though. I see it in your eyes, you’re nervous, aren’t you?”

“You’re full of it, Jackie-Boy. Just a child, pretending at playing grown-up games.” Pitch scoffs, straightening his spine to sit a little taller against the harsh rock. This seems to set Jack on edge because the line of his jaw tenses and he reaches into his hoodie pocket, withdrawing a single item and flinging it onto the floor between them. Pitch cannot deny that he flinches just the slightest at the sharp motion, enough that it takes him a moment to recognize what now lays before him, metal a dull steel grey in the harsh artificial light.

“Pliers, Jack? Whatever will you do with those, bludgeon me?” Pitch’s patronizing smile feels a little brittle around the edges but he refuses to cave to the immortal teenagers scare tactics. “You can’t seriously think you can do anything to me with those.”

“I’m thinking I can do whatever I want to you right now. I’m thinking that those”- and here, Jack waved a slender hand toward Pitch’s shining cuffs, “will keep you plenty docile for my purposes. I’m thinking...” And here, Jack’s voice takes on a razor’s edge, tight and furious, “That my lover was your prisoner, Pitch. You’re dear, dear, _guest_ for Three. Whole. Days. Three days, Pitch. Three days of torment. I saw the marks, I felt him shake.” Jack sits back abruptly from where he’d being slowly leaning closer and closer in during his diatribe. Pitch is forced to blink to focus at the sudden change in distance from those icy, wrathful blue eyes.

“I’m thinking,” Jack begins again, tone deceptively mild and face placid, “that I don’t like your filthy hands on what’s mine. I’m thinking that North agreed to leave me in charge of you for the next three days. I’m _THINKING”-_ and here Jack’s tone rose sharply until he was near-shouting in Pitch’s face, “THAT I OWE YOU _THREE DAYS OF PAIN.”_

The silence that met that pronouncement was profound. Pitch swallowed uneasily, finding himself pressing back further into the corner, eyes wide and locking on the angry countenance of the boy before him. “You don’t have the balls.” Pitch rasps, gathering his flagging courage in a last ditch attempt to talk Jack down. “You, a member of the warm fuzzies brigade? Don’t make me laugh. You couldn’t take those pliers to me if you _tried,_ you miserable little cretin. And the Rabbit, really? Let me just say, you could probably do better. Or no, wait,” Pitch leaned a little closer, teeth bared and sneering directly into Jack’s pale face. “He could, couldn’t he? Do better than the twiggy frozen corpse of a tagalong? You’re a joke Jack, and this little tryst of yours is the saddest, most pathetic punchline I’ve ever met.”

That backhand is surprising, more so in its viciousness. Pitch is grudgingly impressed by the force behind it, spitting a globule of blood and saliva onto the floor to his left before raising his head to meet Jack’s eyes. Once he does, he almost wishes he hadn’t, the look in them makes him regret just about everything he's done ever, up to and including atrocities he barely even remembers committing. The look is completely at odds with the boy’s expression; his face nearly beatific and calm.

“Have you ever loved somebody, General?” Here Pitch feels his black blood run cold. He hasn’t been addressed by that name in a long, long time, more eons having passed since those days than he can truly count. But he remembers, by Moon he remembers.

“I know you have, they told me, you see? The others? About a hero, a great man, _a father,_ and his little girl?”

“YOU DO NOT SPEAK OF HER!” Pitch roars, bloody spittle flying from his lips as he lunges forward right up into Jack’s airspace. “YOU DO NOT SPEAK OF HER, YOU FOUL, LOATHSOME LITTLE”- Somehow, Jack’s fury is louder, more violent then Pitch’s owns as he crowds right back, forcing Pitch to retreat as he bellows him down.

“YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS! YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS LOVE WITH EVERYTHING YOU ARE, WITH EVERYTHING YOU HAVE! YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS TO BE UNMADE BY IT, TO BE MADE WHOLE! YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS”- Jack chokes suddenly, voice breaking for a horrible, terrible moment. When he continues it is almost inaudible. “You know what it is, for love to be your downfall. I know you know that feeling, that fall from grace intimately. I want you to think about it, to remember, to grab that feeling with both hands, so you understand where I’m coming from” Jack’s fingertips nudge the forgotten pliers closer to Pitch’s feet. “You were right about one think, Nightmare King. I’m not going to take up these pliers. I’m giving you the choice. Three days at my tender mercies, three days of anything I can and will think of to do to you, Pitch. Or you take up the pliers, and you give me your teeth, and when it’s over I’ll leave you be. Your memories, Pitch Black. I want them. The fact that you’re going to bleed for them just makes it sweeter.”

“You can’t do this.” Pitch is grasping at straws now, nervous sweat forming at his temples. “The other’s, they’ll never let you get away with it. The Man in the Moon himself will”-

“MiM? You think MiM cares?” Jack’s bitter laugh echoes harshly in the small space. “Look around you, Pitch! You’re buried in this fortresses very asshole, no windows for MiM to see. And let’s be honest...” Jack’s smile is a wide, vicious slash of white teeth. “When has MiM ever cared for things that don’t upset his precious balance?” The lump in Pitch’s throat tightens at Jack’s words because he knows the truth of them; MiM always did turn a blind eye when it suited him too. “As for the others...” Jack continues blithely, like Pitch’s fear and discomfort weren’t glaringly apparent, “well, I’m sure they can be convinced to see things my way. You haven’t a friend in the world to stand up for you now. So tell me Pitch, are you brave enough to face three whole days of my devoted attentions? Or will you settle for the easy way out?” Jack cocks his head again here, observing the panicking man in front of him like a bug under a microscope. “Or maybe I have it the wrong way around; maybe it’s cowardly to face me, braver to take things into your own hands? What do you think Pitch? Made your decision yet? Cause get this, I’m thinking, your teeth, your memories? Threaded in a necklace around Aster’s neck as a permanent reminder.”

Pitch’s heart hammers in his chest, breaths coming in short, sharp pants through flaring nostrils. He is incandescent with fear and anticipation. Before him the spectre of Jack Frost is an almighty figure, God of his small, cold world, that pale elf-like face smiling sweeter than sugarplums. 

Pitch thinks about his daughter, thinks about the things he swore he’d protect her from, thinks about how it had felt to fail her. Pitch think about loving her; loving her unto ruin.

His hands tremble only a little as he reaches for the pliers.

 

(Later, much later, Pitch will think he feels cool fingers pry his own from their death grip on the now-slippery pliers. He'll think he sees, with vision hazed by pain, a pair of white hands gather up all the small, sharp little objects from the pool of tar-like blood they rest in, placing each one carefully into a small sack. He’ll also think, for a brief moment, that the same cool hands press gently to his bloody face, stroking tearstained cheeks in a motherly fashion, and running soothingly through his hair just once before retreating. He’s rather distracted by a combination of agony, exhaustion, as well as the choking sensation of the blood filling his mouth from his mutilated gums though, and he could be mistaken.)

**Author's Note:**

> Don't really have an excuse or an explanation for this. Hope you all liked it anyways.
> 
> Fic crossposted to Fanfiction.net and my Dreamwidth


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